The Many Faces of Jarlaxle
by Surreptitious Chi X
Summary: A series of unrelated shorts exploring different sides of Jarlaxle's character. The mysterious drow mercenary's complexity shown in an attempt to pick it apart and analyze it.
1. Torturer

The Many Faces of Jarlaxle:

Torturer

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Jarlaxle casually pinned the goblin to the wall with a few daggers, smiling benevolently at its squeaking. His crimson eyes lit up with a fiery gleam as the goblin began to plead. Nothing the assassin could understand; it was in the goblin language. Artemis watched from the mouth of the alley, horrified.

"I just happen to have," the drow mercenary said, pulling out a glass jar from under his cape and holding it up with a dazzling grin, "raspberry jam." He showed it to his captive for a few moments while he drew a dining knife from his belt.

Now the goblin spoke badly accented Common. "No, _no_, I know not the information you want!"

Jarlaxle looked over at Artemis without seeming to notice the human's sick expression and said conversationally, popping open the lid on his jar of jam and beginning to slather it on the goblin's wounds, "I found that raspberry jam interacts with something in the blood of those of goblin heritage in a very interesting way." He pointed at the goblin with his knife. "Look! It foams." He turned his crimson gaze to his victim, who was whimpering, twitching in pain from the white foam gathering around the edges of the bleeding wounds on his arms. The drow looked transfixed with fascination. "My, my, that must hurt, mustn't it," Jarlaxle said in a low voice, honey-smooth and melodious.

Artemis resisted the gag impulse in the back of his mouth trying to prompt the assassin to throw up. "I don't want to know."

Jarlaxle laughed and glanced at him curiously, no hint of remorse or comprehension at the man's revulsion in his manner. "Whatever is the matter?"

"You make me sick." Artemis couldn't hold it in anymore and noisily vomited in the gutter. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I don't think I'll be able to eat jam ever again."

"How entertaining!" Jarlaxle said. "I must remind myself to have the next place we patronize offer you some of this delicious raspberry jam. It must be a local specialty." He licked the side of his knife clean. "Now will you start talking, or shall I try blueberry?" he asked the goblin. "I bought the elusive jelly just for the occasion." The drow mercenary looked eager to try it out.

The goblin soon spilled everything he knew, talking rapidly as Jarlaxle yanked his daggers out of the goblin's body and nodded in satisfaction. The moment the goblin finished, he took off.

"I suggest washing with soap and water," Jarlaxle called after him. "I hope there are no permanent effects!" He waved at the goblin gaily, standing on the balls of his feet. "Wonderful man," he commented to Entreri, who still looked faintly sick. "We should have lunch sometime. Beautiful children."


	2. Philanthropist

Philanthropist

A body was lying in the midst of bloody rags. Jarlaxle hadn't been able to determine that he was walking up to a scene of carnage until he was too close to walk away. The rain that came and went in the morning hours of that day washed away the strongest of the smells that came from the alley. And the woman. He bent down on one knee, uncaring that he was kneeling in the middle of the mud puddle that pooled in the middle of the alley.

"What are you doing?" Artemis said. Jarlaxle didn't have to glance at him to know that the assassin had stiffened in distaste at the scene laid out before him.

"In case you haven't noticed, this wretched thing is a human being," Jarlaxle said, deftly reaching into the rags and drawing the woman's wrist into his hand to check for a pulse. One was pushing strongly but erratically at his fingers. He wondered that a thin membrane of skin was all that it took to keep life from spilling out.

"Was," Artemis said, picking his way forward as if he were walking through manure. He corrected again once he stood looking over Jarlaxle's shoulder, "_Was_ a human being."

Jarlaxle looked up and gave his companion a smile that the assassin didn't particularly like. The drow mercenary raised an index finger slyly. "_Is_ a human being," he said. He narrowed his crimson eyes at Artemis. "She's still alive."

The man didn't move. He stared back at Jarlaxle with the singular coldness which the drow so admired, and was so exasperated by, often at the same time.

"Ah," Jarlaxle said, raising an eyebrow as if he'd seen some new insight into Artemis' character. Artemis shifted uneasily, a slight fraction of a movement that was a concession nonetheless. "But you don't think she deserves to live, do you? Not after being so obviously beaten."

"I didn't say that," Artemis said.

"That's right," Jarlaxle said, scooping the frail, bruised body of the woman into his arms as effortlessly as if he were handling a bedroll. "You didn't." He marched off through the alley, resuming their journey back towards the inn room, and began to whistle a cheerful tune.

Artemis stared at the drow's back until he realized that against his wishes the mercenary was going to make him get into something he wanted no involvement in regardless. It didn't matter whether or not he stood here, or followed. He began walking.


	3. Sentimentalist

Sentimentalist

A man suddenly bumped into Jarlaxle, who was unable to avoid being rudely shoved despite his best efforts because he was hedged in by the people around him on the busy street. The drow mercenary stumbled, looked indignant for a moment, and then turned to the black-clad man with such a look of anger on his face and a flash in his visible, red eye that Artemis stopped in surprise.

The offending man, someone the assassin had to believe was somehow monumentally unobservant, didn't notice Jarlaxle's actions and kept plowing through the crowd, beginning to disappear behind the crowd of people.

Jarlaxle reached up with one hand, adjusted his hat at a determined bent, and began weaving through the crowd after his shover. He yelled, "Stop!" The man, of course, didn't even seem to hear, and didn't respond. Entreri wondered what purpose this exercise could possibly have. "Hold!"

"What are you _doing_?" the assassin demanded, looking around and trying to judge peoples' reactions. They were making far too much of a scene.

"I simply can't abide rudeness," Jarlaxle said. "It won't be done. It's not only me which he's offending, it's the whole city."

However, the rest of the city disagreed with him. Artemis noted that no one else seemed to think that one surly man in a crowd was much to worry about. They were right, Artemis thought. Being shoved was the least of their problems, living in Luskan.

People were beginning to resent Jarlaxle's intrusion into their space. They barred his way.

Without pause he drew one of his daggers, eyes set on the man he was chasing, and they parted for him, giving him a wide berth. Artemis considered it fortunate that they happened to be in Luskan.

He followed in Jarlaxle's wake, which was now made much more convenient by the general Luskan citizen's opinion that not getting involved in other peoples' business was a good survival policy.

The man, though he never looked directly at the trailing drow mercenary, scowled as Jarlaxle got close and squared his shoulders as if determined to keep on going.

"Apologize to me directly," Jarlaxle said, "or I won't easily forget what I've seen of your behavior."

In what Artemis thought of as a suicidal gesture, the powerfully muscled man lashed out with one arm and swung it at Jarlaxle's face.

Jarlaxle dodged it, but opened his mouth in indignation and rage as the man in black leather armor deftly speared the floppy purple hat he wore on a dagger. The man held the drow's hat in one hand and sliced it open with the dagger in his other. When he was done, he tossed the mutilated hat to the ground in front of a gutter.

One glance at it confirmed to him that he'd indeed landed it in a pool of mud and silt from a recent rainstorm. One glance was all he got, for when he turned back, it was to meet Jarlaxle's blade, and he was dead before he even spoke.

The drow breathed heavily, but it didn't seem to be because of exertion but because of a peculiar intensity of emotion that gripped him. He seemed to notice after a while that Artemis was staring at him, and glanced over, making a smile as if to reassure his companion that he hadn't lost his mind.

The assassin narrowed his eyes and jerked his head at the fallen body of the black-clad man. The question in his eyes was obvious.

"I defend my hats."

Artemis watched the man walk over and fish the tattered purple cloth out of the mud. Jarlaxle held it in both hands and stared at it for a long time in the same way he might expect a child to look at the dead body of an animal they'd befriended. The drow mercenary ran his fingers over the remains of his hat. The assassin thought it was a little ridiculous, and the man pausing so blatantly on the street was making his back tingle. He didn't want to be standing here in the open anymore.

"It's just a hat," Artemis said, forcibly trying to snap Jarlaxle out of it by grabbing his forearm.

Jarlaxle cradled the muddy, ragged thing to his chest. "This is not merely a hat, my friend, it is a slain companion, fallen nobly in the hour of its doom defending the last thing it had to hope for. People here today will never forget the sight of the purple hat," he declared, raising his index finger into the air.

"Neither will anyone else who's seen it," Artemis said. "It was repulsive."

"And it will be remembered well! It shall have a hero's burial among the other greats –"

"Like Drizzt Do'Urden?" Artemis asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Stop interrupting me." Jarlaxle looked at him irritably.

Artemis gestured around them. "Then stop standing on the street and making speeches which make us both look the fool."

"They love my speeches," Jarlaxle said. He looked around. No one looked at them. They kept their heads down as they walked past them, or they crossed the street without a second glance. "See? They're in attendance by the dozen. People in the back rows are applauding."

The assassin glanced down the street and saw men in armor with capes the design of the city guards. "No, I think the sound you are referring to is the sound of people in heavy armor walking down the street to respond to the call of some poor citizen or three who wants you to shut up."


	4. Survivor

Survivor

"I'll carve out my niche with bloody knives if necessary," Jarlaxle said, drawing a dagger with each hand and narrowing his eyes. He slid into a battle stance, small blades half-raised and ready, but Artemis recognized his position from when they sparred together and noticed that Jarlaxle wasn't serious. The assassin's heart was beating faster anyway, of course. "After all I've been through to get this far, I wouldn't have your people ask anything less than confrontation. That would be anticlimactic, don't you think?"

Artemis retreated by a couple steps and stared. He'd been caught off guard. "My people?" he said. An inscrutable emotion was frozen in his gray eyes. Although similar in appearance, alarm it was not. The man's deep voice took on a sharpened edge. "I am with you, remember?"

Jarlaxle did an experimental slice or two, coordinating his two daggers, and then idly practiced whipping around and aiming a kick high. Breaking an invisible man's nose, Artemis thought, watching him. "Ah, yes," Jarlaxle said lightly, turning casually at him with a dazzling white smile. "A traitor. I know."

Artemis flinched as though they were already sparring and he'd felt Jarlaxle's dagger draw blood. In a way, he did, he thought, picturing his reaction outside of himself.

In a moment, he mastered his instinctual reaction and took a calming breath. I am not going to react when he digs his spurs deeper into my flesh on purpose to see if I can buck him off, he reminded himself. Artemis summoned up his most forbidding expression, and made his voice an ominous growl. "It is not being a traitor if one has been betrayed by everything he knows before coming to the age where one could make a decision such as that with an informed mind."

Jarlaxle paused. His stance, his half finished practice routine, all melted away from him. His shoulders sagged, arms hanging limply at his sides, grip loosened on his daggers. He looked at the floor as if lost, as if someone with a lot of skill as a ventriloquist had been manipulating his strings with nimble fingers and then quietly left him there. He said, "I know."

Artemis understood that this was something that would never leave the sparring room of the Basadoni Guild, or else Jarlaxle would use his inexhaustible supply of daggers to carve out Artemis a new niche in the afterlife. The assassin grinned, and shook his head, looking at the floor as unseeingly as Jarlaxle was. "I know," he said. "We're in it together."

A flicker of surprise crossed Jarlaxle's visible eye. He glanced at Entreri, trying not to turn his head and give away the extent of his curiosity. "In 'it'?"

Artemis turned to him with a deadpan expression. The only warning was the unintentional way his right eyebrow slightly cocked, lending his impassive face a sardonic touch. "'It' would be rothe dung. Up to our eyeballs."

An appreciative grin broke out on Jarlaxle's face. He tossed his head back and laughed. "There is nothing to be worried about!" His red eye glinted merrily. "I am a cockroach, my friend – ancient in origin, I plague every household, and since I have become so skilled at skittering out from under the priestess' feet, here I have come to your surface realms to divide and conquer. Nothing can stop me now, -"

Artemis grinned and said, "By which you mean that if someone cuts off your head, you'll survive for at least twenty days before keeling over because you've been thinking with your ass all this time."

"Do you want to fight or do you want to natter on like an old woman?" Jarlaxle said, once more getting into a reasonable fighting position, casually lifting his daggers and aiming them at Artemis.

"I don't know," the assassin said, drawing his blade. "I'll have to think about it. How much time do we have before they're holding another no holds barred can't miss meeting about whether or not to go back to that hole in the ground you call a city?"

Jarlaxle chuckled as they circled each other warily. He was amused at the no love lost attitude between his two lieutenants and Artemis Entreri. Volatile positions were ones he enjoyed the most. He felt more alive when he realized there a possibility of death thrown into the mix, and he wondered sometimes if he wasn't half dead already.


	5. Patriarch

Patriarch

Jarlaxle guided the boy's arms, standing behind him. The drow child obediently followed the unspoken instruction of the mercenary leader's hands on his forearms, staring blankly ahead and fighting the urge to look back at the bald-headed man. He moved his dagger in a lazy, graceful arc, his motions smooth even though he didn't know what Jarlaxle would instruct him to do next. He held out his other hand as if he were ready to cast a magical spell.

Artemis scowled from across the room, wondering if Jarlaxle was purposefully wasting his time. His partner seemed to be ignoring him, as if he'd forgotten that he'd dragged the assassin along on this trip to Bregan D'aerthe.

"Very good," Jarlaxle said, speaking into the ear of his trainee. He grinned, pleased. "You'll be an elite fighter yet, _r'zanneteth_." He patted the young drow on the shoulder.

Artemis frowned slightly. He'd been following the conversation until now, but that last word, 'r'zanneteth', meant something that he hadn't recognized. He didn't like that slight reminder of his ignorance. He even suspected that Jarlaxle might have used the world on purpose because he knew that Artemis was listening.

The drow warrior, for that was what the boy's black armor declared, looked at Jarlaxle, now that the lesson was over, and smiled at Jarlaxle eagerly. It wasn't an expression of bloodthirstiness, as Artemis would have expected. The boy was proud that he was accomplished enough to earn a good word; an innocent reaction that Artemis hadn't known a drow could be capable of. Perhaps they were people after all, and not merely monsters from birth as the peoples of the surface were quick to say of the Drow. Artemis shook his head.

The boy seemed poised to say something, or do something, but Jarlaxle held up an index finger, indicating him to wait. He paused, the happy expression fading into an unschooled confusion, his mouth still slightly open, revealing straight white teeth.

The mercenary leader said turning to look at Artemis, "Uilan, I would like you to meet a friend of mine." Jarlaxle gestured to him while he stared unbelievingly, and then realized that he was supposed to go over there.

The assassin walked over reluctantly until he was standing with them in a triangular formation in the room. He looked at Uilan doubtfully.

"This is Artemis Entreri," Jarlaxle said, breaking out into one of his huge, dazzling grins and gesturing at Artemis, refraining from throwing an arm around the man's shoulders at the last moment, thinking better of it. "I'd like you to say hello."

Uilan tilted his head curiously, once again obedient to Jarlaxle, but confronted with something outside of his limited experience. "But why?" he asked, still speaking in Drow. "He is an _iblith_."

Jarlaxle became genuinely amused and laughed. "But you are wrong, _r'zanni_," he said, seeming delighted, and gesturing to Artemis with a flair as if he were a magician presenting an audience with an act of impossibility. "He is not an _iblith_." He grinned at Artemis broadly. "You have heard of them wrongly. They are not _iblith_, they are only different."

"You tell the truth?" the drow warrior said, regarding Entreri uncertainly and shifting closer to the mercenary leader as if it would make him feel safer. "I will say hello." His eyes flickered over to Artemis' gray eyes, and the assassin saw disconcertingly that the boy's eyes were dark blue. The boy straightened, lifting his chin and taking on a stiffly formal stance. "Hello," he said to Artemis in heavily accented Common. He didn't know that Artemis spoke Drow; he looked as though he expected that to be the first thing that Artemis could understand. Uilan's expression was unconsciously lofty.

Artemis resisted the urge to shake his head at this strange spectacle of first contact. He didn't understand what point it could possibly have. He sighed to himself. He'd play along with whatever Jarlaxle had planned for this moment. "Hello," he said back, lacking any particular enthusiasm.

"Why does he repeat what I have said?" Uilan asked, curiously sliding his gaze over to Jarlaxle again. The drow warrior was frozen, unsure what to say.

"It is a custom," Jarlaxle explained.

Uilan looked at Artemis again. "Ah."

Artemis was beginning to become tired of this already.

The drow warrior straightened, clasping his hands behind his back and recited, switching to Common again, "I am Uilan. I hope you are having a good day. M-my goal is to your file make sure our service lives up to goals your desire wants. I will be your…" He struggled, warring emotions on his face, turning to Jarlaxle and looking at the mercenary leader as if he didn't want to do something Jarlaxle had told him to. "…your assistant for today." Uilan's look accused and simultaneously begged Jarlaxle for an explanation as to why he couldn't be better than an assistant. Why aren't I better than him? Uilan's eyes asked, looking at Artemis with a displeased pout. "I am twenty-one years old and I am going to become a warrior. I am very capable of taking care of your problems and offering solutions."

That seemed to be the end of the speech. The drow child turned to Jarlaxle, his instructor, and asked in an undertone, switching to his native language, "Is he going to repeat everything I have said now?"

The mercenary leader laughed a little, stopped himself, and then shook his head. He couldn't keep from smiling. "No."

"What is this all about, Jarlaxle?" Artemis said, looking at his partner and waiting for an explanation.

"He is my son," Jarlaxle said. He looked at Artemis curiously, as if wondering why his esteemed assassin friend had been unable to pick up on the meaning of the conversation. "_R'zanneteth_ means firstborn son. Uilan is my _r'zanni _– son," Jarlaxle said, forgetting for a moment that Artemis couldn't understand that word either. The mercenary leader rubbed the back of his head, looking perplexed. "It is a vastly underused term in this day and age among my people, but it is still a perfectly valid term to describe the association between a man and his offspring. Unless, of course, his offspring in question is a daughter instead of a son."

Artemis thought it best to cut him off before he started rambling. "You're losing track of the point," Entreri said. He caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of Uilan's face. The boy couldn't follow their conversation in Common. They were probably moving far too quickly for him to understand, as well as using more complicated words than the boy was familiar with.

Jarlaxle looked faintly irritated. "And what is the point?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"What is he doing here, and why are you bothering to introduce me to him?" Artemis said, pointing blatantly at the youth in question to get across the impression to Uilan that they were talking about him.

"Because he is coming with us," Jarlaxle said, holding out his hands palm up, trying to placate the assassin before Artemis' temper got the best of him. He also looked as though he was confused about the source of Artemis' lack of comprehension about the situation.

"You never said –"

Jarlaxle interrupted, "I said that we were coming here to pick something up." He pointed at the boy and smiled charmingly. "I've found that something, so let's go. It took less time than I thought." He made as if to turn and start marching off.

"Oh no. You're not getting off that easily," Artemis said. He pointed at the young warrior, who was still standing there blankly and watching the two adults. "Does he even know what you've planned for him?"

"Uilan, come," Jarlaxle said, looking over his shoulder at the boy.

Uilan started to follow Jarlaxle, walking after him. "Where are we going?" the boy asked.

"So he _doesn't_ know," Artemis said. He gave his partner a stony glare.

The two drow were leaving without him. He was being pressured into something he didn't want to be a part of. Again. He knew that Jarlaxle would leave him here, stranded underneath the surface, if he decided not to follow his partner. Jarlaxle didn't care for him that much. An argument was at stake. The assassin ground his teeth, hated himself, and followed after them.

The only bright spot in the whole damn picture was that Uilan seemed nothing like the man that had fathered him. As they walked along the halls of Bregan D'aerthe, Artemis found himself trying to compare their faces and find similarities in Uilan's features. It was hard to put together similarities between the boy's childish face and Jarlaxle's older, wiser visage. He thought he saw something that made them alike, but it kept slipping out of his grasp.


	6. Hypocrite

Hypocrite

There were many rumors in Bregan D'aerthe about Jarlaxle.

The drow mercenary's two lieutenants were lounging in a honeycomb shaped room sparsely furnished in soft, black chairs, small, low tables imported from the Surface, and pots of fern moss. This room was open to anyone that wished to sit in it. Jarlaxle was generous when it came to matters of relaxation. The room was the midway point of the two main hallways of the organization, nearly the center of the whole building. There were four open archways, one for each direction, north, south, east, and west. The two drow kept their eyes on every single point of entry. For now, they were alone.

Rai-guy cupped a hand to his mouth, more for effect than for secrecy, and said, "If you don't believe me, just wait until he comes in."

Moments after he spoke, the cheerful clip of their leader's boots against the stone floor came into hearing range. Jarlaxle came through the archway, whistling an unfamiliar tune, his rainbow cape fluttering around him in a room without wind. He was especially pleased, and gave them both a dazzling white grin. "Why, hello, faithful lieutenants," Jarlaxle said, positively turning into a beam of sunshine and shooting up through the ceiling to join the massive ball of light floating in the sky of the surface realm. He threw his arms wide. "Today you may ask for favors. I am a bastion of goodwill."

"You're _sleeping_ with the Matron Baenre?" Kimmuriel said, an appalled expression on his usually disdainful face.

The drow mercenary burst out laughing, looking at the many rings on his hand curiously as if never having seen them before. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Rai-guy said frankly, "Trellium of House Fontein."

Jarlaxle grinned at the wizard cheerily, but there was a ravenous undertone to his smile. "I hate gossip mongers," he said. "I must track that naughty young man down and teach him a lesson!" He raised an index finger into the air. "Let this be a lesson to you, my friends – gossiping is the worst of offenses!"

Rai-guy and Kimmuriel exchanged glances. "You have started more rumors than anyone else in Menzoberranzan," Kimmuriel said.

Their leader beamed and shrugged bashfully, going pink with pleasure. "I know, aren't I awful?" he said. He tipped his floppy purple hat to them. "Now, excuse me, please! For I have a rumor-chaser to track down!" He bounded out of the room with a cry of, "Tally-ho!"

"He's more insane than ever," Kimmuriel said.

Rai-guy scowled. "I doubt that the rumor is true in light of that response, for though it is a disgusting accusation he would own up to it with pride…But note how he made his exit without answering the question."


	7. Manipulator

Manipulator

"I won't get out of the carriage," the little boy said, drawing up his frail frame primly as though he could resist Artemis' hand simply by exerting his station over the assassin. His eyes were large and the same shade of blue as the velvet garb he wore.

Jarlaxle, already standing outside on the sidewalk, poked his head through the door and asked, laughing amiably, "Why not?"

Jordan peered down, his pale forelocks falling in front of his eyes. "There's mud."

Jarlaxle laughed and shook his head, grinning broadly. "Don't worry," he said, extending an ebony hand. "I'll help you down."

The boy trustingly put his hand in the drow mercenary's and hopped down, safely jumping over the large puddle lying between the step of the coach and the raised stone sidewalk to stand by Jarlaxle's side.

He watched Artemis emerge from the interior of the shining black and gold carriage effortlessly, purposefully putting one foot in the puddle that their unwitting hostage had superciliously avoided.

The drow mercenary shook his head again, meeting his companion's eyes and suppressing a comment, contenting himself with an amused, knowing smile.

"Now you'll have to walk behind us," Jordan said, making an injured pout. "The bottoms of my shoes might get spotted, and he bought these for me yesterday. I haven't even worn them outside yet."

Artemis gave the small child his most penetrating stare, making sure that the boy knew of what kind of person he really was. "My pleasure," the assassin muttered. They began walking down the well-manicured street, passing expensive storefronts and landscaped shrubs. He walked behind the ill-matched pair, despising the ease with which Jarlaxle had charmed their little prisoner. "I hate spoiled children," Artemis said.

Jarlaxle shrugged and held his hands palms up in an airy, expansive gesture, smiling down at Jordan. "Spoiled children are the best," he said. "They know the pleasures of life." He gave the little boy a friendly wink. "Normal children couldn't even begin to appreciate the opera, much less sit still through its five acts. Why, it's a pleasure to be in the company of someone who knows how to have fun."

"The Farthemou is one of the most famous plays in history," Jordan said in his serious, soft-spoken voice. "It reflects upon the changes of history and the inevitable act of revolution. Its music stirs hundreds of people each day to tears," he said, looking up at the drow mercenary earnestly. "I wonder if I shall need two handkerchiefs to appreciate the stirring theme of Isabelle and Mimosa." He scanned the city line on the horizon, anxiously looking again for the roof of the theatre house, and then upon finding it, became pacified, walking close to Jarlaxle with a smile on his face.

"I'll bet you've traveled to places that most commoners only wish that they've been," the drow mercenary continued, his manner picking up in enthusiasm as if being more drawn in to the conversation. He smiled dreamily, and only the glint in Jarlaxle's visible eye warned Artemis. "Why, you've probably sailed around the Sword Coast, and _seen_ the beautiful island of Evermeet in the distance, the legendary green isle on the horizon surrounded by swirling mist!"

Jordan faltered mid step, his face clouding over.

"What's the matter?" Jarlaxle asked, looking down at his little companion with concern. The assassin couldn't tell whether it was real, or feigned.

The little boy shook his head.

"Can't tell me?" Jarlaxle said. "Or do you need to use the restroom. I'm sure we could find a fine inn or a restaurant where we could dine and use the facilities."

Jordan shook his head again, making a troubled frown at the sidewalk. "I haven't."

"Haven't what?" Jarlaxle said, seeming lost. Then he caught up to the boy's thinking. "Haven't – Oh! You mean that you've never seen the island of Evermeet before."

"I've never been on a ship," Jordan said. His voice caught, and his lower lip trembled. He looked up at the drow mercenary with the saddest, most pitiful eyes Artemis had ever seen.

The assassin scowled incredulously at the pair of them.

"There are plenty of opportunities to go sailing in this part of the realm!" Jarlaxle said, cheerfully smiling at Jordan, looking as though he were trying to cheer the child up. "Why, a kidnapping should be a _real_ adventure. Let's go to Waterdeep next! We can board a ship there, and I can show you all sorts of wonderful sights only accessible by the deck of a sailing vessel!"

"We can?" Jordan said, his spirits lifting excitedly.

Artemis looked at Jarlaxle sharply.

He didn't approve of Jarlaxle's decision to kidnap the son of the man that owed the mercenary leader, and the rest of Bregan D'aerthe, a substantial amount of money.

Jarlaxle's original plan to establish a method of safe trading between certain factions of the Underdark and his selected associates on the Surface had finally been constructed, this time without the help of any crystal towers taking over his mind.

Jered Duvillieu was a wealthy man that lorded over the city of Rathsford, a newer metropolis that sprang up in the north from a tiny village that he hoped would rival Waterdeep someday. Unfortunately, he'd seen fit to make a deal with dark elves and then betray them.

Artemis shook his head. Instead the noble would get another Skullport, in the best possible scenarios. Most likely his newly matured city would be ruined by the deal, and he would have to live out the rest of his days in relative poverty. A vicious smile grew on the assassin's face as he stared at Jordan's vulnerable back. Just like the rest of us, Artemis thought. He'll start having to get his boots dirty.

Kidnapping Jordan Duvillieu had been almost too easy. The boy knew that his father had been dealing with dark elves, and had even been allowed to see them, walking into the room during one of Bregan D'aerthe's business transactions and being allowed to stay. "Someday he'll be taking over for me," Jered had said, and the representative from Bregan D'aerthe had been trained to be courteous in all manner of trying situations, so true to Jarlaxle's instructions, the drow had merely bowed and then continued the conversation. That meant that when Jarlaxle appeared in his bedroom, walking through the door to the balcony, Jordan wasn't even frightened. He raised his head from a storybook he'd been reading and looked at Jarlaxle with only mild surprise.

"What did you come from the window for?" the little boy asked.

Artemis, already secreted in the room, having slipped past bodyguards and servants alike and up the stairs, remained hidden and listened to the conversation. His role was to make sure the child did not escape through the bedroom door, should the boy decide to run. He tensed, his weapon half drawn.

Jarlaxle looked back at the boy for a moment, bending down so that he could be on a more even level with the lad. The drow mercenary then smiled gently, seeing in Jordan's face a guileless acceptance. He spoke softly, but his voice carried throughout the room. "I'm here to kidnap you."

A jolt of surprise ran through Artemis and down his arm in a current, warning him to make ready, thinking that he probably wouldn't even have time to curse before he'd have to defuse the results of Jarlaxle's admission.

Jordan slid off the small chair and to his feet. He closed his slim book and putting it down on the foot of his bed without any seeming lingering interest, not even looking at it again in passing. "That's alright," he said. He crossed the room towards Jarlaxle, looking up at him, hands at his sides, waiting curiously for what might happen next. "I've never been kidnapped before."

The assassin stared, his mouth agape. Then, realizing he was still holding Charon's Claw, he slid the sword back into its sheath. How did Jarlaxle do that?

"I think it's quite fun," Jarlaxle said, standing in the darkened room as casually as if he owned it, draping one arm across the top of Jordan's dresser. Artemis' expression darkened. The assassin didn't know what the drow mercenary thought he was doing by loitering around long enough in this room to be discovered, but he looked poised to have a conversation. The drow beamed. "I've been on a few kidnappings myself. Always as the victim, of course. I don't make a habit of snatching people out of their homes."

Jordan watched him, entranced.

"Why, on my first kidnapping, I ate ice cream for five days until my parents rescued me with the help of the city watch," Jarlaxle said, idly gesturing with one hand. "They'd asked what I wanted to eat, and so I asked if because my parents weren't around to stop me, I could eat ice cream three meals a day. They agreed! Kidnappers generally have nothing but disrespect for the rules. I've always found them charming people." He laughed. "I never expected to be one."

Jordan giggled. "You're lying," he said, pointing at Jarlaxle, but there was nothing but delight in his expression.

Artemis rolled his eyes. Well, that's a stretch, he thought. Which part couldn't you believe? Someone actually spawning this questionable creature I call a companion, or the great Jarlaxle allowing himself to be kidnapped in the first place?

As if Jarlaxle could hear Artemis' thoughts, the drow mercenary rocked back on his heels with a comical expression of surprise and said, "I am? Why, what part is the untruth?"

Jordan said, "Drow don't eat ice cream!" and he giggled again.

Artemis wanted to smack his forehead. Or skewer the little snot before he grew up and bred more idiots for the world to be inhabited by.

Jarlaxle placed a hand on his cheek and shook his head with an expression of dismay. "Oh, dear. I must remember to take that out of the story. What did I really eat?"

"Mushrooms!" Jordan said.

Mushrooms? Artemis repeated to himself.

Jarlaxle sighed and shrugged his shoulders, holding out his hands palm up as if to say, 'Oh well, what can I do?' "You got me." He sighed again and shook his head sadly. "I just didn't think that sounded quite as good as being able to eat ice cream all day." He smiled slightly. "Though, I suppose you can tell I'm lying because eating ice cream for three meals for five days would make a person sick."

"I got sick after one," Jordan said.

Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow. "Aha, you naughty little boy. No wonder you could tell I was lying."

This elicited another giggle from the small child.

"Well," Jarlaxle said, "it's time to go." He held out his hand, and Jordan took it. Artemis thought it best to sneak out the way he came and meet Jarlaxle at the spot beneath the balcony they'd been when they first got here to the mansion. As he left, he heard Jarlaxle say, "You may have heard that drow float! Well, I have a very special trick for you today –"

This sight of Jarlaxle and the little boy standing outside on the balcony, their bodies close together and their voices soft and warm, made Artemis experience a potent sinking sensation. He didn't like to think that anyone could be manipulated so easily by Jarlaxle, and the way that the drow mercenary pleasantly inserted himself into Jordan's life was hauntingly familiar. He had too much to think about as he slipped down the stairs through the shadows.


	8. Friend

Friend

Jarlaxle skipped down the road in uncanny good humor. He was whistling a merry tune, and often he threw in snatches of other songs, tunes that Artemis could almost remember, bursting frequently into full-blown singing.

There was nothing to be happy about, really. They'd just traded in their horses as the last post, deeming them too vulnerable in order to protect them from some renegade mage they were chasing after who could charm animals. As far as the assassin could tell, the day would only get worse. They were headed straight for a forest, and he had the prickling feeling that they were being watched on and off by scrying eyes.

"Can't you do something about that?" Entreri asked, walking some paces behind the drow mercenary. His hands were in his pockets, but that was to hide how tense he really felt. "She's undressing me with her eyes."

Jarlaxle danced lightly on his feet with the elven grace that Artemis found so puzzling. He twisted his foot in an impossible way and twirled around to face the assassin, cape flapping in the robust summer breeze beginning to buffet around them, nearly taking Jarlaxle's hat off his head. He smiled at his companion, a gleam dancing like fire in the depths of his crimson eye. "By human standards, you're quite handsome." The drow mercenary laughed teasingly.

Revolting. "I wish to be less so," Artemis said. His scalp prickled again as another burst of the feeling of unseen eyes washed over him.

His face showed only grim sincerity, but Jarlaxle laughed again. "What an unusual request! But never fear, my fine friend, I shall have just the trick." He rummaged through the bottles and wands openly displayed at his belt. "An Ugly potion!" He held up a small bottle of bubbling pink liquid.

The assassin's lips twitched upwards, his uncontrollable mirth showing. "I see you've tested it upon yourself," Artemis said. He placed a hand on his chin, pretending to survey the results. "Looks particularly potent."

Jarlaxle bowed his head and pouted miserably, holding his wide-brimmed hat in his hands. "Alas," the drow mercenary said. "Touché." He glanced at the other man speculatively.

The reference to Entreri's new weapon wasn't lost on Artemis. He was carrying a rapier at his belt with a bright green snake wrapped around the hilt, making an elegant looking guard for his hand.

The assassin glanced at it. He hadn't seen fit to replace Charon's Claw completely, but having a weapon that wasn't an evil force grappling for control over him was a refreshing change. The long, thin sword was called Viper, and was so fast that even Drizzt Do'Urden would have had a hard time keeping up with it.

He'd taken it from a noble who was hardly fit to call it by name, much less wield it. He felt it wasn't his fault if the nobleman's grasp on his rapier slipped and it happened to roll on the ground in front of Artemis' feet moments before Artemis planned on killing him anyway.

The noble was a nasty sort of man, hardly fit to wear his fine clothing and call himself a gentleman. He'd had a price on his head practically as large as a dragon's hoard for torturing children. Artemis was glad to put him out of everyone else's misery.

The memory of those small, mangled bodies still chained to the walls of Odoran's basement gave the assassin a brief pang. He looked up at Jarlaxle with startled, wary eyes, wondering if his friend had meant to cause him such pain by reminding him of the sword. The memory of the dried blood, a piercing tang in the air as he opened the heavy oak door, momentarily caught him off guard. Artemis paused for a moment, then felt his dizziness subside. Is this your fault? his eyes asked Jarlaxle.

Jarlaxle blinked at him. "What is the matter?" The drow mercenary stopped, allowing him to catch up and close the distance between them.

What is the matter? What is the matter! That was the most – The most disgusting – The assassin fumed. At the confused expression on Jarlaxle's face, Artemis snapped. "Dead children, that's what's the matter!" His dagger was suddenly in his hand and pointed at Jarlaxle's throat, unbidden. He stared at it. With a secret spurt of terror, he forced his hand down and returned his dagger to its sheath.

Comprehension came into Jarlaxle's expression, but the gesture was far too late for the assassin's temper. The drow mercenary held up his hands. "You're still upset about the happenings of the Godarn mansion," he said, surprised.

"Upset! _Upset_? You don't know 'upset'!" Artemis said. He pointed, even though there was nothing to point at. "How many – How many bodies did you count in that dungeon – that death hole – that –" He stopped, and his arm lowered, hand going slack. Something akin to hatred burned in his eyes. "Or, you didn't feel a thing, did you? You see dead bodies every day littering the streets of the Underdark – probably _watched_ drow too young to defend themselves being flayed to death in front of you, and what do _you_ do about it – "

Jarlaxle said, concern deeply engraved into his face, "My friend." He placed his hands on Artemis' shoulders and guided him aside. "You have lost your composure."

Artemis realized that Jarlaxle was right.

At the time, he hadn't felt anything. When he'd kicked in the door and fought off Odoran Godarn's two hulking bodyguards, he'd been casually talking to Jarlaxle at the same time. They threatened the two men, and then set off for the dungeon. Artemis had turned around and left – "No one's home," he'd said to Jarlaxle. They'd found Odoran in his bedroom, instead, and after taking the fight outside, the battle against him had been easily won. The assassin hadn't even broken a sweat.

It seemed that the events that happened inside that house had a delayed effect on him.

Jarlaxle, seeing that he was retreating into his thoughts, backed away and gave him room to breathe.

He stared at the ground, looking sightlessly at his boots. At first, he'd only had casual musings about what he'd seen there. What the children had been doing when they were captured. Or why there seemed to be twice as many boys as girls. What sort of weapons would cause the patterns of blood down their faces, or the dark brown stain pools on their clothing. Mental filing away, something he believed at the time to be normal. He had been merely dissecting the situation to ensure greater understanding.

Dissecting –

Artemis' stomach heaved, taken by surprise at himself. He threw up in the ditch by the road. His knees shook under his own weight, and he feared that in spite of himself he might reveal a vital weakness to the person they were about to try to best in combat, a situation that struck almost-forgotten chords of insecurity in his chest.

Dear gods. What if I can't do this? He wiped his mouth as best as he could on his sleeve and tried to forget the smell. If he couldn't go through with this, then what would he tell Jarlaxle? He looked at his companion with trepidation.

Jarlaxle was shifting uncomfortably, obviously fighting the urge to begin pacing, his ordinary method of sorting out his problems when the two of them were alone. Indecision was written all over his face. It was nearly the expression Artemis had seen while he had been trying to convince Jarlaxle of the incurable treachery of the crystal shard, Crenshinibon. The drow mercenary was having a deeply rooted internal struggle that Artemis would be foolish to try and trespass on. The assassin held his tongue for now, and merely watched.

The drow who prided himself on having all of his priorities straightened out was stymied by a pair of competing ideas threatening to upset the order of his neat little mental list. The overwhelming feeling Jarlaxle struggled with over the top of the two things vying for his attention was embarrassment. Yielding to either one of the two ideas seemed like a weakness of character. If he chose the mage, and the power struggle, and the no-doubt generous reward for stopping such a dangerous person, then he would be placing glory, excitement, and opportunity over the head of his friend, Artemis Entreri. But his internal voice protested that if he let his human friend come before personal gain once, what was to stop Artemis from preventing Jarlaxle from making a decent living ever again? If he allowed Artemis priority on his list of values, then he would be stuck forever catering to what someone else wished to possess or where someone else desired to spend time. That was unthinkable! That was a nightmare.

But if he'd learned anything over these past months, one of the first codes of enacting a friendship with someone was not putting them through completely unnecessary pain, or putting someone at a disadvantage merely to have the upper hand.

He'd restrained himself admirably, he really had. But now he was talking about the difference of friendship versus profit. It had never _not_ profited him to let Artemis profit by everything he did. Yes; he'd been a good friend. Every time he had profited, so had Artemis Entreri. He had never held anything back from Artemis; everything he had to give was freely his friend's to take, provided that Artemis didn't turn it against him. Their goals were always one – the ones that mattered, anyway.

Now they were standing in two different places. He was standing on the side of rushing after the mage and attacking, winning the day, and returning to the town like satisfied, victorious canines after a good hunt. Why, they'd feel better at the end of the day with gold in their purses and good food in their stomachs.

The drow mercenary paused, looking at Artemis uncertainly. The man's complexion was paler than normal, and he was subtly sweating, small beads of moisture collecting on his forehead and upper lip. And he was still shaking.

Jarlaxle almost said something, almost offered some words of comfort and assurance, but he felt himself still before he could give Artemis the words. Jarlaxle felt a prickle of cold certainty in his chest, coupled with a deep ache of regret at the sight before him. Artemis needed help now. He mostly likely couldn't withstand the battle til it was over. He'd be wounded, at best. At most, Jarlaxle would have to cover him instead of counting on the assassin to cover Jarlaxle's back to the point where Jarlaxle could better fight alone.

That idea almost had sense in it for the drow mercenary. He couldn't endanger Artemis while the man was still so vulnerable, so he could have Artemis make camp here, and he could slip off into the forest alone. Jarlaxle didn't doubt his own abilities to take on the mage; he'd faced worse odds daily in the Underdark and still lived to laugh, smile, and carouse with women.

But that idea flickered flimsily like a splinter of wood breaking under his gentle prodding. Artemis couldn't be trusted by himself. He had a disturbed frame of mind right now, and who knows what he would do if he was left to his own devices. Jarlaxle was called Artemis' friend. Chasing a mage while the assassin was still so distraught was called abandonment. Purposefully not being there in the hour of his friend's need was called the act of abandoning him. Not something hastily forgiven, and easily damaging their friendship past the point of repairs he could make on the jaded man's trust.

Then he would have to stay here, and make sure that Artemis camped out, had a good meal, and rested. He'd never seen Artemis quite so disturbed, and he knew his own tendency to let the world around him slip away, neglecting activities, rest, and sleep for days. He couldn't let Artemis do the same thing. That would be called letting Artemis endanger himself. He rubbed the back of his bald head with one hand, perplexed.

But it was inconceivable. Abandoning profit for the sake of the wellbeing of Artemis. He sensed that it was an act that had no boundaries, only a fluid and shifting line. Where would it end? What would he start? An enslavery of himself? He had no intentions to turn himself into an indentured servant instead of a partner. Partnership was the whole point of his being there with Artemis. Making a commitment as strong as this…

No…Wait. Jarlaxle held up an index finger, but it was directed at no one and nothing except at his own trail of thought. What commitment was he going to make? He didn't have to make a commitment. His smile widened. He was making an exception; just this once, and for this circumstance only, he would put Artemis in front of him and his profit. And when it was over, it would wash out of him like a little mustard on his shirt. His hands wouldn't be stained by this one way or another. He was simply avoiding the decision altogether.

Jarlaxle grinned at his friend, the assassin, and held out his arms wide. "Come on, my friend," he said. "Let's go home."

Artemis' eyes narrowed, dark and suspicious. "Menzoberranzan?" He guessed at the nature of Jarlaxle's meaning of the word 'home'.

Jarlaxle laughed and shook his head. "Home is where you make it, my friend."

Artemis relaxed, relieved, and broke out into a small smile. "The inn, then. That one that would probably disintegrate if someone forcibly kicked the front door. The Dancing Bear."

The way that Artemis allowed him to put his dark arm around Artemis' shoulders was all the thanks that Jarlaxle needed.


	9. Entreprenuer

Entrepreneur

Entreri stared at the sign, and then walked through the glass-paned front doors. The shop was brand new. Everything was wood-paneled, painted, or finely decorated glass. It shone pristinely in the pure light emanating from floating crystal globes that hung high up, almost touching the ceiling. Trust Jarlaxle to buy the most expensive things wherever he went.

Jarlaxle stood behind the counter in the front of the store, looking more excited than Entreri had ever seen him save for when they were in a battle with impossible odds. "Well?" the drow said. "Well? What do you think?" His hands were pressed palm down on the shining black counter top.

The assassin raised an eyebrow and said wryly, his tone deceptively mild, "Welcome to Jarlaxle's 'Jems'."

Jarlaxle caught the note of mockery. "Nonsense! Everyone loves a good misspelling."

"They'll think you can't speak Common," Artemis said.

"Then they'll be wrong," Jarlaxle said, curling his hands into fists and looking at the other man determinedly. "I'll have the best business in all of Faerun!"

"Why not try the world?" Entreri said, rolling his eyes.

"I'll get there eventually," the drow mercenary said, not a hint of mirth in his eyes, but instead, a serious, speculative expression on his face as he looked down at the glass cases soon to hold jewelry.

The assassin felt a mild heart attack. "Never mind," he said, but he could see Jarlaxle wasn't listening to him. "What are you going to do with all these cases?" he asked, gesturing about him at all the displays.

Some were mannequin necks covered in black velvet for displaying necklaces, others black velvet wrists for bracelets, and there were rows of finely made boxes standing open and empty. They all had glass boxes around them, under lock and key in advance of any treasures the drow's precautions were protecting.

"Fill them up," Jarlaxle said.

"With what?" Artemis said. He gestured around them. "How are you going to build up a stock of gemstones to trade as large as this store within a week?" For, he remembered, that had been what Jarlaxle had told him the drow mercenary was going to do.

"You'll see," Jarlaxle said. He scanned the room with his eyes, a cutting quality to his demeanor. "You'll see. Waterdeep won't know what to do without me after I set up business here."

"Don't you think the other jewelers might resent your pushing them out of town?" Artemis asked.

Jarlaxle smiled. "Oh, no, I'll be providing rather more exotic things than they have to offer. My wares will only be for the most avant-garde of wealthy customers."

"I suppose you'll set up part of the shop for piercings and tattoos," the assassin joked.

Jarlaxle chuckled. "Artemis, you might make a good business partner. I like the way you think."

Entreri froze. "No. No thank you. I'd rather be leaving."

"But what will you do?" Jarlaxle asked, his curiosity evident on his face. "Where will you go?"

"I don't know," Artemis said. He clutched the hilt of his sword angrily to ward off his feeling of insecurity and turned on his heel, striding out of the empty jewelry store before Jarlaxle could question him.


	10. Victim

**Victim**

* * *

"You're looking quite lovely today," she said. 

"Thank you," he said.

Her lips curled into a feline smile of genuine amusement. "Not you, the spider."

She leaned over him, and he helplessly watched her cleavage shift back in forth in front of his eyes while she petted the arachnid that was crawling somewhere in the vicinity of the wall behind his head, a sight that he no longer had any appetite for. Jarlaxle blinked, slowly, but didn't close his eyes, glad at last to be awake. After last night, he was glad to be alive, even if the thin fluttering of his breath was forced past several bruised and broken ribs.

He flexed his left hand, making sure that he could still move it, and wasn't sure whether to be relieved or afraid that although stiff and numb, she'd apparently left his fingers whole. Perhaps she was saving it for another day.

His torturer's face finally leaned back into view, and he made eye contact with her for a lingering moment, long enough to see disgust in her eyes at his act of forcing her to see him.

He cracked a smile. "I could qualify for the title of _oss'kiyoos_ too someday, you know. Why don't you show me some of that respect?" He tried to prop himself up on one arm, but aches lanced through his muscles from shoulder to elbow, and bright spots appeared before his eyes as his lungs suddenly pinched.

_Damn_, he thought. _I've gone and poked a hole in my lungs. Now she'll watch me drown in my own blood. Again. _He closed his eyes, sinking back down to the chilly stone floor. Jarlaxle wanted to let out a roar of frustration. _How many times has it been since I died the first time? Two? Twelve? Twenty? I can't remember. I can't remember!_

Then, the coldly sinking realization. _I'm never getting out of this cellar. _His smile twitched on his lips. _Not alive, at any rate. _

He dimly realized when his vision cleared that she was watching him quietly, a calculating expression in her yellow eyes.

"You did promise me that you would turn me into a drider to spare me the pain, didn't you?" he asked, turning his head away from her and staring at the blood spattered wall.

She sniffed. "Consider it a promise kept," she said sweetly.

Jarlaxle shut his eyes. _I've changed my mind. I don't want to be awake. _'Consider it a promise kept' was a drow expression regarding betrayal and duplicity. A shudder passed through his body at the obvious implication of torture to come.

"Have you tired of our sport?" she inquired in the same sweet voice.

"Never, Chatalna dear," Jarlaxle said. His voice was a civil drawl left over from the days of spiced wine and long hours by the faerie fire in his office, surrounded by luxury and opulence as he savored the latest fine literature of Cormanthor and waited for his operatives to return and report to him about a latest transaction. "What will it be today? Will you finally remove the source of my manhood and bring me closer to Lloth?"

"No," the female said, her voice low in her throat. "You've had enough chances to recant your heresy."

There was the slightest sound, he had learned to pinpoint and appreciate, of leather rubbing against leather, and then hissing as the snakes awakened on her whip.

Jarlaxle let out a series of small, painful chuckles that threatened to reduce into moans. "My dear priestess, Vhaeraunian literature does not make me a masked follower."

Chatalna stroked her snakes and stared down at him, an action so familiar that he could tell simply by the pleasured sounds her serpent whip was emitting. "Why don't you tell Lloth that yourself?"

He spasmed, then writhed and contracted into a ball. He watched his own vomiting as he threw up viscous, irregular slime, splashing the floor with a number of different colors cooling against the stone, dotted with chunks of bright red half-digested food. "I think…I need…a draught."

The drow priestess walked over, the heels of her boots clicking against the hard stone, and took his shoulders, roughly turning him to face her. "Why don't you ask Vhaeraun to help you?" Her eyes were hard, but her lips curved into a smirk. "After all, he's supposed to be all-hearing, isn't he?"

"Lady, I am not a Vhaeraun follower," Jarlaxle gasped, his chest full of stabbing pains and his throat choking on his own blood. "I would know better than to attempt his worship in a city so dedicated to her majesty, the Queen of Spiders." He sagged in her arms, lacking the strength to hold himself up. He didn't know what else to do. Reasoning with them had failed, trying to get them to use common sense had been a debacle that ended in his torture by fire and his death and resurrection. He begged, openly, openly for his life. "Please, stop this."

She drop kicked him, and when he slammed into the wall, he hardly felt it because he was already in so much pain from his chest being crushed under her foot. "You're pathetic. Just like your demi-god worshipping ilk infesting the forests Above and daring to call the Lady of Loss a usurper of the Drow people." Her lip curled in hatred. "I hope you die as many times as necessary to ensure that you teach your 'friends' a lesson and your 'loyal' allies come back to rescue you so I can personally crush your band of infidels and show you for the Vhaerunian traitors you _are_."

Here he was, drowning in his own blood, crumpled in a pool of his own vomit, and he could only raise one hand and twitch his way through a message in the Drow sign language. _You…have fun with that. _


	11. Traitor

**Traitor**

-----------------------

It was the dripping sound that woke him from unconsciousness, but it was the sound of hard-soled boots against the cold stone floor that made him raise his head from the congealed pool of blood that had formed when he'd been struck unconscious by the paladin interrogator.

Artemis winced, clamping his mouth shut and breathing through his nose to prevent making any noise. He recalled making the paladin angry by suggesting he go home and rape children instead of beating an innocent ex-assassin. To his own humiliation, fear rose in him at the thought that the same paladin was back now.

The three longest fingers on his left hand were swollen from their part in his torture, and the broken digits throbbed more painfully the faster his heartbeat became.

He closed his eyes, hoping that the boots would stop at the location of one of the other prisoners –one, an elderly bard arrested for speaking lies about the church of Tyr, and two others that had refused to pray to the god. In this poorly settled, barbaric land, the followers of the church were harsh and fanatical to a degree that even Artemis found incredible. They saw themselves as keeping order in the wilderness, and anything that disrupted that order was punished.

The boots did not stop at the other bodies. They came closer, and as Artemis convulsed, retching in an uncontrollable panic reaction, they stopped in front of his writhing form.

When the assassin opened his eyes and looked at them, he stared. They were not the paladin's steel-capped boots. The sight was so familiar that his mind went blank, unable to place why he knew those particular feet. Artemis waited for the right identity to come to him, but it couldn't part the fog. He was too fatigued, and in too much pain, to figure it out.

"Hello, Artemis."

The assassin flinched. Then he looked up at the figure of his former partner. "What are you doing here?" He coughed, feeling the dryness of his throat. "You…You abandoned me."

Jarlaxle petted the magical gemstone in his hand. "It was necessary." He held it out, as if the sight would soothe his friend's distress.

"Necessary?" Artemis dragged himself to his feet in a flash of anger, if only long enough to swing with his fist at Jarlaxle's head. Jarlaxle easily caught his fist with a hand and deflected it. "You abandoned me to torture for this?" He fell back to the hard stone floor and curled up against the pain bitterly.

Jarlaxle smiled. "I knew you'd survive. I had faith in you."

"You bastard!" The assassin tried to rise again, and found that he couldn't. The pain in his midsection was too strong. "You betrayed me just to see if I could survive? What kind of friend are you?"

The drow mercenary paused, only for a moment, to look confused. "My friend, you can't think that even I had enough influence to rescue you from them before I collected this." The blue-violet stone sparkled in his hand as if it knew that it was being talked about. "And I had to sacrifice your safety in order to evade capture long enough to crack the seal on the temple. You wouldn't have been able to retrieve the artifact – it took many centuries of magic and cunning."

"So now I'm stupid as well as expendable," Artemis said.

Jarlaxle sighed. "Don't be difficult. I just explained to you why what I did wasn't betrayal. Now get up."

"You back-stabbing filth," Artemis said slowly. "You really think it makes a difference, don't you?" The assassin started trembling. "The days of torture, the endless interrogations whereupon my soul was scoured for the questions they seek, you think I feel better now that I know you did it in a calculated move to gain a magical _rock_."

"The Gem of Belihsaede," Jarlaxle protested. His smile was now entirely given over to confusion. "Artemis, you have to get up. I may be able to walk through walls and transcend normal matter, but I can't protect you once we're discovered. The Gem doesn't work that way. It's purely defensive."

"The gem is purely defensive," Artemis repeated as if he didn't understand. In truth, he felt an anger so white-hot that it seared away all his other emotions. "I think you better leave. If you rescue me, I am going to kill you the moment I can stand without the certainty that my legs are broken."

Jarlaxle took Artemis by the front of his tunic and hauled him to his feet, lifting one of the assassin's arms over his shoulders to try and support him. The mercenary winced and held back the urge to stumble to the floor as Artemis successfully kneed him in the groin. He held up bravely on suddenly weak knees and started walking towards the wall. "Artemis, please."

"I ought to strangle you with your own intestines," Artemis said.

"Not now," Jarlaxle said. He squeezed the enchanted jewel, giving it a silent command, and they both saw the world turn shades of blue and violet, their surroundings rippling as though seen from underneath a lake. The dark elf mercenary walked through the wall to outside the citadel in the silent, monochrome world of the Gem's own brand of dimensional travel, dragging his unwilling friend.


	12. Hero

**Hero**

-----------------------

The slave trading movement in Skullport was alive and well, in spite of the efforts of the Harpers and the followers of Elistraee to shut down the black market business. The Harpers were focused on eradicating the slave market as a whole, but the Elistraeeans were more focused on a specific group: Drow. They spent their lives rescuing the dark elven children who had been sold into slavery, usually by their own families, children who had been taunted and beaten by the slave traders due to their heritage before they even docked in Skullport. No one bought a Drow to treat them well.

That was why Jarlaxle got involved.

He twisted and slashed his way across the deck of the filthy merchant ship, forced to use his twin extending daggers instead of his bracers due to the crowds of chained children crushed together on the deck. He gritted his teeth, his expression, for once, that of an utterly serious drow warrior. Around him, followers of Elistraee clad in silvery garments and assorted chain mail shirts fought with the fervor of feral cats, crying such slogans as, "Die, you slaver scum!" and "Unhand the future of Elistraee!" as well as the less optimistic "Drow die free!"

He ignored all of that, only skirted the clusters of terrified children who neither understood what was happening nor a single word of Common and made sure that the slavers didn't try to kill any of the children simply to prove their point that they were unstoppable. He slit a man's throat, and then stabbed another in the stomach in the same fluid motion, steely-eyed as the man fell whimpering to the deck.

Jarlaxle stood over him with narrowed eyes and glanced around at the battles going on around him, making sure the Elistraeeans had it handled for the moment.

The man was whimpering and clutching at his intestines as if he didn't recognize what it was that had come out of his stomach.

The mercenary was tempted to kill him then and there, but he held himself in check, reminding himself that they wouldn't have killed these children quickly. They would have given these children a fate worse than being sacrificed to Lloth.

"You don't want to deal with an adult drow, do you?" Jarlaxle asked. "Instead, you take out your anger on our young – assuming that no one will be here to stop you. Well, I'm here, and I'm going to stop you. You didn't expect that, did you?"

The man was shaking his head, tears beginning to roll down his unshaven cheeks.

Jarlaxle turned to the children, mostly males, and mostly still young enough to need wean-mothers. He spoke with his back to the carnage, relying on his peripheral vision to warn him if he were attacked, using their native language. "Take heart, little drowlings. It will not be as bad as it seems forever."

It struck his heart forcibly when they looked up at him with hopeful eyes, still so young that they had not even learned of the treacherous nature of their people, and still so young that they probably didn't understand how they had ended up on this ship.

A cheer went up from the fighters of Elistraee behind him. "The ship is secured! Elistraee triumphs!"

Jarlaxle smiled reassuringly at the small children, kneeling down to be on their level. He wiped his blades on the body of the dying slave trader and sheathed them. "You will come with us now. We will take care of you. I promise. Life will not be so bad."

He knew the Elistraeeans didn't really understand why he was here, in spite of the fact that they had agreed to let him come along, hearing of his identity and being impressed at the rogue of Menzoberranzan would lend his strength to their cause. He wanted to show them what he was here for, and he was conscious of the women watching him as he interacted with these children, saw them nudging each other out of the corner of his eye.

He smiled, and winked at his pint-sized audience, then took a pinch of sparkling blue powder from a pouch at his belt and blew it. It went everywhere, settling on the chains of the enslaved drow all across the deck as if sticky. Then there was a deafening chorus of clicks as all the shackles unlocked at once. The disgruntled expression of the leader of this expedition was gratifying – he had just eliminated the work she would have had to do in searching out the key.

None of the children moved. Some of them were even stunned to the point where they sat down on the deck and stared with wide, frightened eyes.

Jarlaxle slowly reached out his hands and picked up the child nearest him, settling the boy in his arms. "This is called an embrace." He cradled the boy, and let him rest his head on Jarlaxle's arm. "It is what friends do when they are glad to see each other. We are friends, aren't we?"

He buried his face in the sleeve of Jarlaxle's tunic and clung to him with scraped and bloodied hands.

Jarlaxle went through this process, one by one, while the Elistraeeans prepared to burn the ship and spoke amongst themselves about refugee accommodations. When it was time they leave, Jarlaxle had them trailing after him in a big, calm group, smiling and holding hands with the youngsters and earning more puzzled looks from the priestesses of Elistraee. He chatted and joked with the little ones, producing shiny rocks and little toy trinkets from unexpected places around his person, from his sleeves to behind his ear to his boots, looking like the world's kindest, most brightly dressed wean-mother.


End file.
